


Sorcerer

by JeanGraham



Category: Blake's 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 19:09:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20662274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanGraham/pseuds/JeanGraham
Summary: Prisoners on Cygnus Alpha fear an escapee -- named Avon. (An alternate version of the episode "Cygnus Alpha.")





	Sorcerer

Sorcerer -- By Jean Graham

Cygnus Alpha's repressive grey sky threatened rain. In the   
seventeen weeks they'd spent here, Vila could not remember a time   
when the planet's dull sun had shone. _Oh, give me a nice comfy   
dome and an artificial atmosphere any day!_

"I'm going," he announced, and groaning, dumped an armload of   
foul-smelling timbrel weed into the wooden cart. Gan used a   
crude metal rake to pack the bundle into a corner.

"Going where?" the bigger man asked incuriously, and shuffled more   
timbrel around the cart bed to look busy. "You know well enough   
there's nowhere to run."

"That's what _they _say. And you lot are just doped enough to   
believe it." The thief cast a nervous glance at their robed   
guardians. The hooded figures, armed with long knives, stood   
posted at intervals around the field overseeing the handful of   
prisoners assigned the task of harvesting the pungent weeds. Vila   
scratched at his own homespun clothing and bent to toss another   
bundle into the cart. "I can't take this kind of living," he   
complained. "I have a weak back. I've always been allergic to   
work. And they haven't built a prison yet could hold Vila Restal.   
You'll see."

"You think living elsewhere on this planet would be any less work?"   
Gan's bulk made the flimsy vehicle creak as he moved within it.   
"Take my word for it, Vila. You'd never get past the outer   
perimeter."

"Wrong again, my friend." Vila leaned over to feign rearranging   
Gan's bundles, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the weed's musty   
odor. "If Avon can do it, so can I."

"Avon!" The large man made a derisive, guttural sound.   
"Whatever's left of him is probably strung from one of Vargas'   
crosses, rotting out there as a warning to other 'unbelievers.'   
You want to end up like that?"

Vila grimaced as the muscles in his back complained. "Anything's   
better than this," he grumbled. "And I don't believe it anyway,   
about Avon I mean. They'd never have caught him."

"I wouldn't bet on that. The Federation did."

Squatting to gather up another bundle, Vila pretended to refasten   
the binding. "He always said he could adapt. Maybe that's just   
what he's doing, somewhere out there. And so could we."

"You're dreaming." Gan leaned on his makeshift rake long enough to   
cast the thief a jaundiced look. "I dunno why you keep on about   
Avon. I mean, if he were as smart as he thought he was, he'd never   
have broken Dainer's neck back on the London, would he? Leylan   
could have had him executed then, only I think he knew Cygnus Alpha   
would do the job for him. And it has."

_But we all of us owed him for getting rid of Dainer,_ Vila thought   
fiercely. _And Blake, for spacing Raiker, even if he didn't come   
back for us afterward. At least life got a little easier on the   
London without those two brutes around._

The bell for midday meal tolled, and the thief gratefully sank to   
the ground to tear into his food sack with its meager ration of   
dried meat and bread. In the wagon, Gan did much the same, though   
he went through the motions of praying beforehand. Vila hadn't yet   
found the courage to ask whether his friend's acceptance of their   
captors' 'religion' was sincerity or sham -- he hoped it was the   
latter, but Vargas' drugs had affected all the new arrivals this   
way. All, that is, except prisoner Restal, who'd been blessed from   
birth with a stubborn metabolism that resisted many of the standard   
compliance 'medications.'

"You know what's really ironic," Vila said around a mouthful of   
nearly-unchewable bread. "They were all three in close custody   
that day -- Blake, Jenna and Avon -- for fiddling the ship's   
computer during our revolt, you remember? Well if Avon hadn't   
killed Dainer when they came for him and got himself packed off to   
the infirmary for his trouble, they'd have probably sent him over   
to salvage that big bloody derelict along with the other two. He'd   
have got clean away, same as they did."

Gan chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "It still rankles you, does   
it? That Blake got away?"

_Only that he never came back,_ Vila thought, but aloud he said,   
"No, not really. But I'll bet it nettles the hell out of Avon."

His companion shrugged. "You dream too much, Vila. Avon's dead,   
and Blake's not coming back."

_The Gan I knew before would never have said that! And Blake   
wouldn't have given in so easily, either_. "Miserable ingrates,"   
Vila sniffed. "If I'd got away in a ship like that, I'd have come   
back for the rest of you."

"Oh yes, of course you would."

At the other man's dubious tone, Vila drew himself up indignantly.   
"I would!"

Gan did not look convinced, so he let the matter drop. "Well,   
anyway," he said, frowning when a drop of rain splashed onto his   
hand and was soon joined by several of its fellows, "I'm going."

Having finished his meal, Gan went doggedly back to packing the   
bundles of weed before the resume-work bell had even rung. "All   
right," he said over his shoulder, and then paused before he added,   
"Maybe I'll just go with you."

Vila grinned. _Now that,_ he mused, _is the Gan I remember.   
There's a life outside this hell somewhere. And you found it,   
didn't you Avon? That and maybe, just maybe, a way off the   
planet? That's why I have to find you, Avon, because I want a   
piece of that action -- before it's too late!_

  
* * *

  
"They could all be dead by now, you know." Jenna Stannis faced   
Blake down across Liberator's piloting console, her green eyes   
coldly determined.

The object of her cynicism merely tilted his head, a grudging   
admission that her words might be only too true. "All I know for   
certain is that _I_ must be certain," he said cryptically. "I...   
we... need a crew." He turned his back to her then, and strode   
around the console to address the ship's computer. "Zen, status of   
pursuit flotilla?"

+Liberator is free of pursuit within immediate sensor range,+ the   
deep voice responded.

"You mean to say we've finally lost them?" Jenna couldn't contain   
an exclamation of disbelief. Her vernacular was apparently lost on   
Zen, but it brought an affectionate grin to Blake's face -- a smile   
he hadn't used in many weeks.

"High time, wouldn't you say?" he queried gently, and then, "Zen,   
plot a course for the Federation penal planet Cygnus Alpha."

Jenna's eyes snapped at him. "I still say it's suicidal, going   
there. You don't owe that lot anything, and besides, it's exactly   
what the Federation will expect you to do."

Blake took a seat on the flight couch, unconsciously gnawing an   
index finger. "Maybe," he said. "And maybe not."

Zen derailed Jenna's intended retort. +Course laid in,+ it   
reported obediently.

Blake nodded. "Execute. Standard by seven."

+Confirmed.+

"You could be giving it all up," Jenna tried again. "And for what?   
I could take you to any number of planets where you could assemble   
a crew."

"Of freetraders?"

She gave him a sultry look, as though his inflection had somehow   
constituted an affront, or worse, a challenge. "You'd have a   
problem with that, would you?"

Denial glinted in Blake's eyes. "Only in that they'd be an unknown   
quantity. We'd have no guarantee they'd possess Vila's ability   
with locks, for example, or Arco's talent for weaponry systems, or   
Avon's genius with computers. Would we?"

She stabbed at lighted switches on the console, confirming Zen's   
course. "Life doesn't come with guarantees," she sniped. "Or   
hadn't you noticed?"

His answer dismissed further argument. "So I've been told," he   
said. "But I didn't believe it then, either."   
  


* * *   
  
_"An intelligent man can adapt."_

When he'd said it to Blake aboard the London, Kerr Avon had   
believed it with all his being, believed it because he'd no other   
choice -- he knew of no other way to survive the living hell of a   
prison ship, or a penal planet. Since then, he'd had cause to   
doubt his confidence. An Alpha's Earth-dome upbringing did little   
to prepare one for adapt-and-survive procedures in an open   
atmosphere, even under the best of conditions. And Cygnus Alpha   
could hardly be said to offer the best of anything.

The makeshift cloth bag rattled as he shifted its weight on his   
shoulders, finally easing it to the ground as he paused for a   
minute's breath. Gazing up the hillside at his home of the past   
fifteen weeks, he allowed himself a brief, sardonic smile. As   
castles went, it was less than impressive -- a crumbling ruin left   
by some unknown previous inhabitant, designed in a mockery of   
architecture similar to that of Vargas' temple, though this one was   
larger and in worse repair. Vila had once quite accurately   
described the style as 'early maniac.' On occasion, albeit rare   
occasion, Vila displayed something remarkably akin to incisive   
intelligence.

Surrounding Avon at the base of the citadel's crag, the ruins of   
what had once been a city stretched for better than a square mile.   
He had no idea who the one-time inhabitants had been, though he'd   
been grateful to discover they had at least possessed computer-age   
technology. It wasn't difficult to speculate, however, that they'd   
differed with Federation expansionism and paid the ultimate price   
for their noncompliance. Discernible from the citadel's height,   
the yawning missile crater into which most of the city had   
collapsed lent a certain morbid credence to his theory.

Sighing, Avon hefted the bag and went back to his task amid the   
rubble of a one-time food store. The radiation-sealed packets   
joined the rest of today's profitable haul in the sack: one   
miniature andyne power generator, five cracked but serviceable   
dynamon crystals, numerous useable computer components -- and two   
lead-protected cases of decontaminant drugs. This last was by far   
the most valuable of his finds to date. He had no means of   
measuring just how high the residual radiation level stood -- but   
these drugs would mean freedom from the tainted supply he'd stolen   
from Vargas' temple. Freedom from the mind-numbing paranoia the   
mad priest's additives had inflicted on his fellow exiles.

He wondered idly how Vargas was supplied with the drug. Surely not   
from these ruins -- he and his encephalitic followers considered   
the city 'cursed,' as well they might. Yet the medicine, as well   
as other stray odds and ends about the priest's fanatical little   
community (their shoes, for example) did not add up to the homespun   
anti-technology they claimed to embrace. The answer was only too   
apparent. Obviously, the Federation shipped more than prisoners to   
this place. Which in turn meant that Vargas' decontaminant was in   
all likelihood laced with suppressants and tranquilizers as well as   
the paranoia-inducing compliance compound. Small wonder he'd had   
difficulty concentrating on his tasks within the castle...

It was a pity, he reflected grimly as he gathered the last of the   
food packets and prepared to head back up the hill, that Vargas'   
sleep chamber had been vacant the night he'd affected his escape.   
There had been no time to track the night-prowling high priest.   
But Avon would have taken immense and unreserved pleasure in   
sliding a quiet knife between the obese fanatic's third and fourth   
ribs.

It would have been a summary and well-deserved execution.

_"There's a punishment scale for infractions, which starts with   
long periods of confinement in your launch seat, and ends with the   
Commander's right to order execution."_

The echo of Subcommander Raiker's words shadowed him up the   
hillside, along with his own, spoken not long after.

"We had once chance -- you wasted it. There won't be a next time."

"In which case you can die content," Jenna's hard voice had said   
behind him, and when he had echoed the final word, querulous,   
she'd added bitingly, "Knowing that you were right."

Small consolation that would be.

And when they came for him, he had no doubt that his death was   
indeed their intention. The bloodlust was manifest on Dainer's   
bearded face; Raiker wore it as a smirk behind the casual threat of   
his pararifle. He was going to enjoy this.

"You. On your feet."

Avon's restraints retracted as Raiker snapped out the command, and   
Dainer's gun directed him out of the flight chair with a sharp,   
jerking movement. "You heard him. Move!"

He debated refusing to comply -- let them kill him here, in front   
of the fool who had caused this mess to begin with -- but before he   
could complete the thought, a beefy hand grabbed the collar of his   
tunic and hauled him from the chair, nearly choking him. Dainer   
snarled something in his face, and incredibly, he heard Blake   
shouting some sort of protest behind him. Once a fool...

"You won't be so cocky an hour from now." Dainer twisted the   
collar still tighter, forcing Avon to gasp for air. "Alpha   
bastard..."

He reacted without thinking -- there was nothing but the desperate   
need to breathe and the desire, almost as great, to wipe that   
damnably smug expression from Dainer's face. He brought one knee   
to bear against the larger man's groin and shoved with all the   
leverage he could manage. With a muffled grunt, the man released   
him and Avon drew in a strangled breath before the butt of Raiker's   
gun slammed into his side, sending him reeling. He tried to grab   
the flight chair for support, to regain his feet, but Raiker had   
him by the hair, yanking him backward so that he fell face-up at   
the Subcommander's feet. The rifle barrel was shoved into his   
throat then, hard enough to cut off his wind once again, and   
Raiker's hellishly cherubic face loomed above it, leering.

"So you want it right here and now, do you? Stupid son of a   
bitch--"

"No, wait." That was Dainer, still breathing hard and unabashedly   
rubbing at his wounded manhood. Blake was still squeaking   
something-or-other in the background, something none of them heard.   
"Let me do it," Dainer panted, belatedly adding a hopeful "sir."

Raiker's laugh held all the warmth of a death rattle. "All right.   
I'll not deprive you of the pleasure." The rifle barrel pressed   
itself savagely into Avon's throat and then abruptly was gone,   
replaced by Dainer's hands at his collar once again. Avon forced   
his muscles to remain limp as he was hauled up off the deck, and   
Dainer interpreted the lack of resistance as he'd been meant to do   
\-- until Avon's own hands flew up to strike him a double-fisted   
blow across the face. Dainer fell away, plunging toward the flight   
chair. There was a loud, sickening _snap_ as his head struck the   
metal arm, then an oddly prolonged silence that lasted until the   
body had settled heavily and with finality to the deck.

The wild rage in Raiker's ice-pale eyes was the last thing Avon   
remembered of that day's events aboard the London.

  
* * *

  
Halfway to the citadel, Avon's free hand strayed unconsciously to   
his neck and shoulder. He still bore scars from Raiker's rifle   
stock, from the beating that would have ended his life there and   
then, had Blake's cries not attracted attention at last, and   
brought Leylan to the scene. In retrospect, he was not altogether   
certain he could thank either man for the 'rescue.' But he'd   
smiled to himself with a different sort of gratitude when from the   
infirmary bed, he'd overheard the medics say that Blake and Stannis   
had escaped -- killing Subcommander Raiker in the process.

The castle loomed nearer, already in shadow as Cygnus' anemic sun   
fell westward behind it. Avon reached the east wall and stood   
beneath the security camera -- another salvage from the city below.

"Arachne," he said distinctly, "read voiceprint, entry east door."   
The computer's response was slow -- so slow that Avon's gun was in   
hand by the time the door at last rumbled open. He'd come across   
the weapon and a meager supply of projectile ammunition only three   
days before; it had not left his side since.

#East door, open,# Arachne's halting feminine tones reported.

Avon did not move. "Why the delay?" he demanded.

Again, hesitation. Avon scowled. Piecemeal the computer system   
may be, but he had assembled every last component circuit of it   
with precision and painstaking care, and it had all been   
functioning perfectly this morning. "Well?" he addressed the   
security camera's pickup. "Answer the question!"

Arachne hummed in mock agitation. #There is an intrusion,# it   
finally replied. #South door... breached.#

That brought Avon to attention, the gun instantly alert in his   
hand. He had expected this sooner or later, but would have   
preferred later, when more of his security systems would be in and   
the project would be nearer to completion. As it was, the news   
merely angered him on a personal level. Prison planet or not, his   
self-imposed exile and this particular piece of Cygnus Alpha were   
his and his alone, and he intended to brook no interference in his   
plans.

"Where is the intruder?" he asked, allowing the heavy bag to slide   
from his shoulder. With his foot, he pushed it inside the door for   
retrieving later on.

#Unknown,# the speaker above him finally rasped. #There is...#   
Static crackled. #...incurred systems damage.#

"Close the east door, Arachne."

#East door closing,# it answered at once. Well, at least that   
function had not been impaired. The thin metal sheeting rattled   
back across the opening; Avon made a mental note to replace it with   
heavier material if the project took much longer to complete.

Weapon first, he then left the doorway and made his way around the   
exterior to the south wall. The entrance there was indeed open --   
battered into submission by virtue of a very large rock, from the   
look of it. Similar projectiles had been used to smash the   
overhead camera, and the intruder, obviously no technophile, had   
continued to wreak devastation once inside. Broken light fixtures   
and wall plating littered the entry corridor.

Avon felt a chill, and immediately dismissed it as the damp of   
Cygnus' approaching night. He ventured warily through the ruined   
door and into the devastated corridor, pausing only when he reached   
a junction that branched into three. The castle's weird blend of   
ancient stone and high-tech gadgetry gave its halls an oddly   
sinister aspect, a feeling Avon shrugged off as ludicrous -- the   
tainted drugs had taken their toll on him, and he would be relieved   
to be free of them. At least he, apparently unlike his visitor,   
had not suffered with the side effect of technophobia.

#Avon.#

He started at the sudden intrusion of Arachne's hesitant voice.

"Yes?" He wondered what their visitor would make of this, hearing   
as he would the computer's disembodied half of their conversation.

#We have completed project phase beta-four.# Static scratched   
across the last of that, and Arachne seemed to stutter briefly.   
#Projected range is now zero to one-point-one-three miles. With   
minor circuit repair, we may implement test-one.#

So the damage was minor now, was it? He would have to see that it   
did not become anything more. "I'll be there shortly," he told the   
pickup without looking up. "Are you still unable to locate our   
'guest'? Answer yes or no; he's probably listening."

#No,# the wall answered succinctly.

"Stand by, then."

One of the three branching corridors presented the intruder's   
unmistakable trail. More smashed paneling, more shattered lights.   
Avon toyed with the gun, and the ghost of a smile curled his mouth.

"Well now," he muttered aloud. "It could be that we've approached   
the problem from entirely the wrong angle."

#Clarify?# Arachne queried.

"Nothing," he said shortly, but the smile had widened to an   
anticipatory grin. Phobias, drug-induced or not, might as well be   
turned to his advantage, given the proper application of technology   
\-- and just a touch of imagination.

Holstering his weapon, Avon turned away from the ruined corridor   
and headed eagerly down another passageway. He had a new avenue of   
research to explore...

  
* * *

  
Sleep had been out of the question. Vila lay awake, listening to   
the raucous snoring of his fellow prisoners and to the drone of the   
insects outside the dormitory's unpaned windows. The rucksack   
holding his pilfered food and drug supply nestled secretly between   
his back and the wall, hidden by the coarse blanket. They were   
both waiting for the right moment.

Damp air streamed in the window, making him shiver. Two beds away,   
he could just make out the shadowy mountain that was Gan, and he   
wondered if the big man had fallen asleep. Vila hoped not. Having   
to wake him might prove disruptive, and disruptions were the last   
thing he needed tonight.

_"Sorcerer!!!" _

The shriek sent Vila bolt upright amid the grunts and queries of   
awakened men throughout the room. It had come from outside.

"Demon!!" The hoarse scream was closer now. "In the citadel! A   
demon!"

There was an overall scramble to the door, which Vila joined once   
he'd secured the bundle under his clothing. He fell in beside Gan   
as they crowded out the door, mumbling imprecations all the while   
at this unscheduled interruption in his plans. The bigger man   
didn't hear him, preoccupied as he was with trying to see over the   
crowd to spot the source of the disturbance.

"It's Gavin," someone else said, and Vila tried to crane his neck   
to see.

"What on Earth...?" Gan breathed.

The thief shot him a disgusted look. "That's just the trouble," he   
complained. "It isn't."

The throng finally thinned enough to allow him to see, and Vila   
squinted toward the center of the ring they had formed, at the   
figure struggling there with two robed sentries. It was Gavin all   
right -- one of the twenty-three prisoners from the London, though   
in his current state he was difficult to recognize. Disheveled and   
wild-eyed, he threw off the priests' hands and screamed again,   
babbling something about the citadel. "Out of nowhere!" he sobbed.   
"The demon appeared and brought fire and smoke, and a curse upon   
us!"

"Oh-oh." Gan's utterance distracted Vila's attention; the thief   
turned to see the mob parting to allow Vargas' entrance. The   
bearded, corpulent high priest stopped short of the blithering   
Gavin, his glare so fierce that both acolytes backed away.

_"You_ are the one cursed," he bellowed, and the intimidated crowd   
fell silent at once. Obviously pleased with the audience response,   
Vargas bent and with one beefy hand, lifted the quaking Gavin by   
the front of his dirty tunic, shouting the next words into his   
face. "The citadel and all that surrounds it are Anathema. You   
knew this!"

"I seek forgiveness!" Gavin's wail earned him a rough shove back   
onto the spongy Cygnus earth, where he promptly prostrated himself   
and began burbling mindless litanies at Vargas' feet. "Only from   
his hand comes life..."

Vila felt ill. How could this possibly be the same man with whom   
he'd shared bunk space aboard the London? Come to think of it,   
more and more of his former shipmates -- even Gan -- had begun to   
talk and think of late like these crazy priests. Scowling, Vila   
felt the stolen supplies weighing heavily in the pouch beneath his   
tunic. The drug had to be the reason. Like so many other   
'medications' to which he'd been subjected in the past, it had less   
than full effect on Vila. Something to do with an unusually slow   
metabolism, or so the CF-1 medics had theorized. Fortunately, he'd   
been able to break into the computer center before his final escape   
and obliterate that little item from his record...

Clutching the pouch protectively, Vila backed away from the crowd,   
which remained clustered round the weeping Gavin. Gan moved with   
him, a silent shadow until they were past the barracks. Only when   
his friend kept going did the bigger man whisper an objection.

"What are you doing?"

"Only what I said I would. I'm going."

_"Now??"_

"Well of course now!" All this stage-whispering was making Vila   
edgy. "You know a better time? All the sentries are back there,   
listening to Gavin ramble on like an idiot. None of 'em expects us   
to just walk away. They count on that."

Gan cast dubious glances backward. "They'll come after us," he   
mumbled.

The smaller man's lip curled. "Not where I'm going."

"Eh?"

The inky shadows of the tree line swallowed them, but Vila kept on.   
"I know where it is," he said half to himself. "I've seen it from   
the east slopes plenty of times."

Gan stopped abruptly, and even in the poor light, the thief could   
see that his face had paled. "Not the citadel. You just heard   
Gavin say--"

"You don't have to come along!" Vila snapped, and walked on. He   
disliked handing Gan such a dilemma, but in the end of it there was   
no other way. The old Gan would never have believed all that   
superstitious claptrap; this one was afraid only because he'd been   
conditioned to be. The thief had his own apprehensions, but sorcerers and curses did not enter into them. In fact, he had a sneaking suspicion that the citadel's demon-in-question walked on two very human legs and at least occasionally answered to the name of Kerr Avon.

When Vila pressed on, Gan eventually unglued his feet and came   
stumbling after, panting at the extra exertion. "Why?" he wondered   
aloud. "Why there? We could go anywhere else, anywhere else at   
all."

"Not where they wouldn't follow, we couldn't. Besides, you don't   
really buy all that mystical-supernatural twaddle, do you?"

"I dunno," Gan hedged, meaning of course that he did. "I haven't   
any better explanation. Have you?"

"Yes. That's Vargas' drug talking, my thick-witted friend. And   
you're--" Vila paused, turned and listened for something he   
couldn't be certain had been there. Shaking his head, he plunged   
on into the dark, refusing to think about what else of a totally   
non-supernatural sort might be lurking out here. He placed the   
need to escape Vargas foremost in his mind and kept it there -- but   
couldn't quite repress a nervous shudder.

Gan noticed.

"Got to admit I'm surprised at you, Vila," he said. "I always   
thought you were anything _but_ the adventurous sort."

"Hmph." The thief squinted into the dark and forced his feet to   
keep moving forward. "It's not supposed to be an adventure," he   
averred, and his legs began moving faster to the rhythm of his   
words. "Just a nice, simple, straight-forward, no-bother,   
no-frills, no-snags and no hang-ups-thank-you-very-much escape.   
That's all!"

"Oh."

Gan's monosyllabic response was their last exchange for many miles.

  
* * *

  
Jenna Stannis waited impatiently behind the teleport console while   
Blake adjusted his weapon belt and bracelet for the umpteenth time.   
She had long ago concluded that to argue with him was futile, but   
never one to hold her tongue, Jenna saw no reason to begin doing so   
now.

"I still say you'll be wasting your time down there. You don't   
really suppose they'll let you single-handedly empty the prison, do   
you?"

He laughed, a faintly condescending, deep-throated chuckle. "It's   
a colony, Jenna, not a security prison."

"It doesn't matter," she argued. "You could be walking to your own   
execution for all you know. Your own fellow convicts might kill   
you as easily as look at you. Why put yourself in that kind of   
danger?"

He shrugged, as though nothing she had said made any difference.   
"I need a crew," he repeated, "and there are some down there that   
I came to think of as friends."

Jenna scoffed openly at that. "With friends like Avon, you'll   
never need enemies."

"You never had much use for Avon, is that it?"

_No, but at least I understood his motivations_. "Not much," she   
said aloud. "I think you might have learned something from him,   
though."

"Oh?" The simple query held both doubt and patronization, but Jenna   
pounced on the opening it provided just the same.

"Something about trust," she lectured. "For instance, how do you   
know I won't just take this ship and leave you down there?"

Blake had an annoyingly avuncular smile. "Because I do know   
something about trust," he said, "and I trust you."

She'd seen that glint in his eye before. On Earth, it had no doubt   
worked in tandem with the smile to charm his idealistic followers   
into doing his bidding. Jenna, however, had been immune to charm   
for some time -- a freetrader learned to avoid its pitfalls early   
on, or forfeit a lucrative career.

So Blake trusted her, did he? She dissolved his too-smug   
confidence with the cold, candid truth -- in two words. "You   
shouldn't."

His eyes widened, genuinely surprised.

She heaped salt into the wound then. "And not Avon or Vila or any   
of the rest of them either. Because that kind of trust will get   
you killed. Believe me. I know."

Sobering, he turned his back on her and moved silently into the   
teleport bay. When he faced her again, his expression defied her   
to argue any further.

"Put me down, Jenna."

She locked gazes with him for a moment longer, defiance meeting an   
equal force of obstinance. Then she threw the teleport switches in   
rapid sequence and watched him vanish in the wavering distortion   
field.

"Avon always said you were a fool," she told the empty bay. "In a   
way, it's a pity he's probably dead. He may never know how right   
he was."

  
* * *

  
Nested within the Citadel's manic labyrinth of corridors, three   
levels from the ground entrance and protected by the sturdiest of   
double-metal doors and walls, Arachne hummed with the artificial   
life of her multiple control systems. Any literate observer might   
at once have seen the arcane resemblance between Arachne and her   
mythical namesake: the mad tangle of reclaimed and rewired   
circuitry spread outward in eight directions from the central core,   
each offshoot devoted to its own vital function. The four 'legs'   
stretching northward controlled voice simulation, security cameras,   
magno locks and lighting, respectively. The conglomeration's   
southern appendages were devoted to the project's four primary   
functions. They were labeled, in Avon's exacting shorthand, DIREC,   
DEMAT, TRANSIT and RE-INT.

The project's creator labored at the moment beneath DEMAT's primary   
console, struggling to place one of the newly-salvaged dynamon   
crystals. With its focusing power, he should be able to extend the   
range by at least--

#A suitable vessel has entered planetary orbit,# Arachne announced.

Avon's probe thumped to the floor and rolled away, instantly   
forgotten. By the time he had extricated himself and reached the   
computer's central banks, Arachne had repeated her terse   
proclamation.

"I heard you," he told it curtly. "Specifications."

#Entering initial orbit at six thousand, four-hundred spacials;   
decreasing incrementally. Volume: forty-one thousand cubic meters.   
Mass: eighty-six-thousand--#

"That cannot be correct," he interrupted. "No ship could possibly   
be that large."

#Recalibrating,# Arachne said flatly. She paused only a heartbeat   
before announcing, #The data is accurate. Furthermore, in-depth   
scans have detected verified teleport activity.#

"What?" Avon spun on the vocoder as though the computer had   
physically attacked him.

#Teleport activity confirmed,# the feminine voice insisted.

Outrage welled in Avon's eyes. "You were not authorized to utilize   
this project for independent tests!"

Arachne hummed for a moment, deciphering his accusation.   
#Activity,# she said at last, #did not involve this unit.#

Avon glared. "Explain," he demanded.

#Teleportation beam originated aboard the orbiting vessel and   
terminated at planetary surface coordinates nine-seven mark   
five-one--#

Avon cut it off. "How many teleported?"

#One.#

"How many remaining aboard the vessel?"

#One.#

Avon's head tilted as he considered the unfolding possibilities.   
"Well now," he drawled. "Perhaps Christmas has come early this   
year after all."

Arachne beeped in electronic consternation. #Christmas?# it   
queried. #Reference, archaic, old Earth calendar. Terran   
religious festival originating in--#

"Cancel." Avon thumped the panel impatiently. "Analyze power   
source of detected teleportation energy."

#Power source is indeterminate,# it replied immediately. #Probable   
focusing agent is the substance acquatar.#

"Acqua--?" Avon stopped mid-word, unable to make sense of any of   
this. "But the Federation abandoned acquatar as a focusing agent.   
It is too unstable. Recheck the analysis and confirm."

#Data is corroborated. The vessel is not of Federation origin.#

Avon's eyes widened. "No," he said thoughtfully. "It wouldn't be.   
They have nothing of that mass or capability. Report status on   
operations five and seven. Is our range sufficient to put me   
aboard?"

#Negative. Current directional capability and transit range   
require a minimum proximity of three thousand spacials.#

So near and yet so far... Scowling, Avon fingered the   
dynamon-jeweled 'brooch' that adorned the left shoulder of his   
cape. On the workbench behind him, three assembled prototypes lay   
amid a tangle of scavenged electronic parts. The 'brooch' had   
seemed the best approach in the end. His salvaged clothing,   
midnight blue and black, was otherwise lacking decoration -- but he   
kept a fifth jeweled disk in his pocket for good measure. When it   
came to leaving Cygnus Alpha behind forever, he intended taking no   
chances.

#Vessel has descended to four thousand, five-hundred spacials.   
Orbital decrease continuing.#

Better and better. "Good," he said aloud. "Keep me apprized. I   
wish to know the moment it is within range."

If it came into range. If it didn't, the alternative would be less   
pleasant, though tenable. He would have to find the individual   
this pirate teleport had deposited on the planet -- and engage in   
a little piracy of his own.

#Sector one reports intruder alert,# Arachne said calmly. #Breech   
of southeast door.#

"It never rains..." Avon muttered. At the computer's start of a   
baffled query, he snapped, "Never mind. Give me visual."

#Camera thirteen, on screen.#

The picture that fluttered onto the small screen revealed two   
'visitors' this time, both already inside the citadel's stronghold.   
Avon's grim smile returned when he recognized both timid figures   
venturing into his southeast corridors.

"Gan and Vila," he said to himself. Well, at least there had been   
no need for lock-smashing this time. Vila would never be so   
heavy-handed.

#Orbiting vessel has reached 4400 spacials. Trajectory would   
indicate ultimate stabilization at 2300.#

"I'm glad to hear it. The moment it is feasible to do so, you will   
put me aboard." The gun re-materialized from beneath Avon's cloak.   
"In the meantime, we will further test the short-range functions.   
Run program FAUST, co-ordinates one-one-seven-one."

Arachne bleeped once, softly. #Program running.#

"Activate." Gun in one hand, dynamon brooch framed by the other,   
Avon's form quietly dissolved into shimmering component atoms and   
vanished from Arachne's lair.

The sprawling computer beeped to itself once again and smugly   
reported, #Phase one of program FAUST completed. Commencing remat   
at one-one-seven-one.#

  
* * *

  
"I tell you we can't leave!" Arco's stubbled face confronted Blake   
across the neck-high barricade of the dormitory window. "We'll die   
if we do."

"You haven't listened to a thing I've said," Blake snarled,   
irritated at the man's pig-headedness. "My ship has the most   
advance medical facility anywhere in the known worlds. You don't   
need this Vargas person's drugs!"

"So you say!" Arco sniffed, turning away from the window. "We   
don't want to go, Blake. Why don't you just leave us alone?!

"Wait!" Blake gripped the window's gritty ledge, his knuckles   
white with ill-concealed fury. "Where is Avon? Vila? Gan? Let   
me talk to Vila!" He felt confident that the thief, if no one   
else, would want to go with him. The prison hadn't been built that   
could hold Vila Restal, or so he'd always boasted.

"Yer wastin' yer time, I tell ya," Arco drawled. "They ain't here,   
none of 'em. Gone off to that cursed place, accordin' to rumors   
hereabouts. Probably all dead by now, the lot of 'em. They say   
's'what happens to them as tries sorcery and--"

"What cursed place?" Blake cut him off, desperate to make sense of   
the tirade. "Tell me where it is!"

Squinting at him, Arco sniffed again and shuffled back to lean on   
the window sill, his voice falling to a conspiratorial whisper.   
"A'right, then." He coughed with a wet, infectious rattle. "I'll   
tell you. But listen, friend. Don't ever say you wasn't   
warned..."

  
* * *

  
As grand entrances went, this one far exceeded FAUST's maiden run.   
The 'sorcerer' melted slowly into being amidst an appropriately   
noisy display of smoke and laser-generated lightning. All told, it   
would rival any Alpha-dome light show back on Earth, and Avon was   
more than a little proud of it. Granted the special effects were   
peripheral to the project, but when it came to protecting his   
hard-won privacy, he'd resolved to give no quarter.

His 'miraculous' appearance in the ground level antechamber   
elicited the desired reaction. He saw Gan fall back against the   
wall, quaking, his large square hands upraised to shield his eyes.   
But as the smoke thinned and Arachne damped the lighting for the   
next phase of his performance, Avon noted with annoyance that he   
was 'entertaining' only one spectator.

Where the hell was Vila?

"Please..." Gan's meek plea made a laughable contrast to the man's   
bulk. "We didn't mean anything by it. We'll go away again if you   
like..."

Avon glowered while a programmed gust from the wind vents rippled   
his midnight cloak. So Vargas' poisons had changed this one as   
well -- turned him from mere half-wit to mindless idiot. Would an   
equally gelid Vila be cowering somewhere just outside the door?

"Where," he said, and Arachne's pick-ups amplified his voice to a   
satisfyingly stentorian boom, "is your companion?"

"I... I don't..." Gan stammered, then changed tactics and repeated   
his earlier entreaty. "Please, we'll go, just give us a chance   
to--"

Violet light forked across the ceiling above Avon's head, sizzling   
Gan's plea into a pathetic whimper. The man curled sideways and   
tried frantically to blend into the unyielding stone wall.

"I asked you a question," Avon rumbled amid the program's arcing   
flashes and curling smoke. The best portion of the lightning   
display was yet to come -- Avon's last victim hadn't lasted long   
enough to appreciate it. And what a pity Vila was missing the   
show. Perhaps a repeat performance, when the thief had been   
located.

FAUST's electronic storm was about to reach its crashing crescendo:   
the thunder's shuddering vibrations surged through the flooring,   
throbbed in the walls. Avon raised his arms, draping the cloak to   
create an air of menace.

"You will tell me--" he began, but the command died in mid-sentence   
when flat white light suddenly flooded the chamber. The artificial   
wind expired with a whine. His programmed thunder and lightning   
sputtered to an anemic halt.

There was a moment of dead silence. Then someone applauded.

Avon wheeled, cape flaring, to find a grinning Vila Restal standing   
at the manual override control. Its once-locked panel dangled open   
beside him to expose newly-disconnected circuitry.

The applause ended when Avon turned, though the grin did not.

"That's really very good, you know," the Delta thief enthused.   
Avon's stolid glare tracked him back across the room to Gan, where   
Vila goaded the bigger man to his feet with a gentle kick. "Get   
up, you great whinging oaf -- Avon'll think you didn't like the   
show." Gan complied, but his eyes had lost none of their   
drug-induced terror.

Chagrined, Avon smacked the wayward cloak into place with a   
disgusted gesture. "What do you want, Vila?" he snapped.

"Oh, you know. All I've ever wanted, really. Wine, women, wealth   
\-- never mind the songs. And the ranking's optional, of course."

Arachne interrupted the end of Vila's quip to report that the FAUST   
program had been aborted. #Orbital status,# she added, #is 3475   
spacials.#

"Excellent," Avon said, aware of Vila's perplexed scrutiny and   
Gan's continuing awe. "Proceed as instructed, Arachne." His hand   
had once again unconsciously cupped the brooch; only belatedly did   
he realize that Vila held three of its twins in his hands, studying   
them intently. Avon took an angry step forward. "Give me those--"

The hands drew back, and inexplicably, the thief dropped one of his   
prizes into Gan's palm as though for safekeeping. "I never thought   
you were much the type for jewelry, Avon. Want to tell me what   
they are?"

"They... are none of your concern."

"Mm." Vila played the remaining two discs back and forth between   
magician's fingers. "What would you say to a deal then, eh?"

#3300 spacials,# said Arachne.

"I would say that you'd best do it quickly."

"In a rush?" Vila looked cagey. "Whoever that is coming in, 3000   
spacials is a way off yet. They won't be here all that soon,   
surely."

Avon's eyes widened. "Sooner than you know."

#3200 spacials,# Arachne said at the exact same time. #Descension   
is accelerating. Project directional phase complete. Please   
prepare for demat sequence.#

Gan and Vila exchanged mystified glances, the latter muttering a   
half-hearted plea that they leave now and go back to the complex.   
Avon wished it to be so, but the thief wasn't budging.

#3100 spacials.#

The sorcerer thrust out a hand. "Give me the discs."

Vila's grin was as avaricious as his clenched fist. "It'll cost   
you two seats on that ship, friend."

With no time for further argument, Avon drew the gun from beneath   
his cloak. He'd intended to have it in hand when he arrived aboard   
the ship in any case; now it merely served to punctuate his   
request. Seeing Vila's confidence flag, he started forward to   
reclaim the brooches.

He never completed the step.

With a shriek, something rotund and dark-robed came charging   
through the door. Avon's gun swung to face it: in the same   
instant, Arachne calmly announced, #Demat and transit sequences   
initiating.#

Avon was aware of the enraged Vargas rushing at him, bellowing.   
But in the next moment, he felt a now-familiar light-headedness --   
then the impact of something 'colliding' with the space his   
disassembling atoms had recently occupied. The intersection had no   
effect on his teleportation; his next conscious impression was that   
of a brightly-lit room with hexagonal entries, a deserted control   
console -- and the transit-stunned Gan and Vila gaping open-mouthed   
beside him.

Footsteps clattered toward them from the left corridor. Avon's gun   
moved to confront the threat, only to draw up when the footsteps   
halted and an armed Jenna Stannis faced him from atop a short   
flight of stairs. Her gun drew up as well, then the blonde head   
tilted to one side and incredibly, she smiled at them. A cold,   
ice-and-diamonds smile. And in the cool green eyes Avon saw a   
gleam of something kindred, something concrete and negotiable;   
something common to pirates and embezzlers alike.

He knew, in that moment, that he had won.

Avon and avarice were old friends.

  
* * *

  
A few yards into the citadel's southeast corridor, Blake started at   
the echo of a disembodied voice. #Demat and transit sequences   
initiating,# it said. The report was followed by a decidedly human   
shriek -- a low-throated howl of rage from somewhere ahead of him.   
Weapon drawn, he inched along the wall toward the sound, pausing   
again when the electronic voice sputtered briefly back to life to   
deliver the poignant but cryptic statement, #Good-bye, Kerr Avon.#

_Good-bye??_ Blake twisted to peer up at the wired speaker mounted   
in obvious afterthought to the stone and tile juncture of the   
ceiling. But his intent to question the voice died unspoken when   
a second shriek and the crash of breaking glass echoed from the   
corridor's end.

Blake ran.

A bulky, robed figure, bearded and wild-eyed, whirled to glare at   
him from the remains of an overturned table. Blake pointed the gun   
at him. "Don't move."

The man's hairy face split into a toothy grimace. "Well, well. So   
all the flock are not fled after all."

"Who are you?" Blake demanded, in instant doubt of the burly man's   
sanity. "Where are the others?"

The reply came with forceful, unrestrained arrogance. "I am your   
god, infidel. And your Sorcerer has been banished, back to the   
fiery hell from whence he came."

Arco had mentioned a high priest, a madman who ruled the tiny   
prison colony with a proverbial iron fist.

"You're Vargas," Blake breathed.

"I am your god," the priest repeated, advancing in spite of the   
gun. "And your god requires obedience. You will come back with   
me."

"I'm not going anywhere. And I told you to stand still."

Vargas halted, a moment of wary rationality invading his bulging   
eyes. His scrutiny fell on Blake's gun then, and he released a   
raspy, wheezing chortle. "Is that a weapon?"

"Come closer and find out."

The priest threw back his head and laughed, the imperiously   
unbridled laughter of the insane. Blake never saw the hand that   
swept from beneath the black robe, striking with incredible speed   
and strength to knock the gun away. Detached from its power pack,   
the weapon clattered uselessly across the flagstone floor. Blake   
tried to dive after it. His effort to roll away met a vicious kick   
from Vargas' enormous foot.

_The shoes,_ Blake thought inanely. _The shoes are wrong for a   
prison planet, wrong for a priest..._ When the heavy foot again   
lashed out at him, he grabbed it and pulled. Vargas flew backward   
with a strangled shout, buying Blake enough seconds to slap at the   
comm button on his teleport bracelet.

"Jenna! I need teleport _now, _Jenna!"

He scrabbled across the floor to reach for the fallen gun, but   
Vargas had recovered his footing, and Blake found himself hauled up   
by the collar and twisted until he was face to face with the   
enraged priest. Vargas babbled nonsensical incantations at him,   
shaking him like a child's toy.

Where was Jenna? Why hadn't she answered?

"Only from his hand comes life!" the huge man was bellowing, and at   
every word, Blake's head met the rock wall with a painful _crack._  
"Say it!"

The bearded features blurred, became for a moment the thin pale   
face of another man who had made that demand of him aboard the   
London. From somewhere, Blake summoned the strength to force a   
knee into the man's groin. When Vargas wheezed and backed away,   
releasing his collar, he aimed a kick at the same spot, connecting   
solidly through the folds of black robe. The priest roared and   
fell backward: it gave Blake the precious seconds necessary to drop   
and snatch up the gun.

_Jenna, where the devil are you???! _

He fumbled the gun's connection, finally slapping the power line   
into place with the heel of his hand. Vargas was coming at him,   
and this time the fury in those mad eyes was lethal. He had barely   
enough time to regain his own feet before the raging mountain   
slammed into him.

Sheer reflex depressed the gun's firing stud. Blake heard twin   
screams. A fiery agony blazed across his hands and chest, and the   
sickening odors of singed fabric and burnt flesh mingled. He saw   
death overtaking the madness in Vargas' eyes -- then a blinding   
whiteness obliterated everything, and Liberator's teleport bay swam   
into hazy existence around him. Jenna leaned over the console, her   
hand still gripping the toggles, and the spectre of a cloaked Avon   
held one hand poised over hers, as though to stop her. He withdrew   
it as Blake stumbled forward, dimly aware of two other familiar   
faces near the console. Gan and Vila...

"Jenna, what the hell is going on up here?"

She sat back, indifference etched across her features. "Not a   
lot," she said unhelpfully.

"We needed a way out," Vila offered.

"We didn't know it was you." That was Gan, sounding both shaken   
and apologetic.

"One thing _has _changed, though." Jenna's eyes glittered coldly   
in the light from the console.

Above her, a flat voice said, "Yes," and Blake looked into a black,   
unflinching gaze that made his blood run chill. He felt giddy,   
half-conscious of the gun falling from burned hands to dangle at   
his hip.

"I don't understand," he murmured, though perhaps he did. Vargas'   
words drifted back to haunt him. _Your Sorcerer... gone back to   
the hell from whence he came._

"It's really very simple." Jenna turned her arctic gaze on Avon   
then, and waited.

They all waited while the Sorcerer's smile evolved into a coldly   
rapacious grin.

"This," he said, "is _my_ ship."   


The End   


See all of my fanfic and links to my pro fiction at <http://jeangraham.20m.com.>


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